


oh, the night's my weakness

by Syster



Series: the dom!youngjae agenda [1]
Category: GOT7
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Bottom Jackson Wang, Church Sex, Dom/sub, M/M, Part of my Dom!Youngjae Agenda, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syster/pseuds/Syster
Summary: His grin doesn’t falter as the large wooden doors are pulled shut, making the chapel sealed off from the rest of the monastery. The sunlight seems to hang in the air, the silence so palpable it’s almost visible.It’s odd, how liminal it becomes, with the door closed.The heels of Youngjae’s shoes click against the floor, echoes against the walls. Jackson shivers with the sound, unable to place it into a single feeling. Anticipation. Shame. Desire. Want.or: jackson likes being the thing that makes youngjae human, even if that humanity comes with a price.
Relationships: Choi Youngjae/Jackson Wang
Series: the dom!youngjae agenda [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168916
Comments: 13
Kudos: 40





	oh, the night's my weakness

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd.
> 
> this is honestly not as filthy as it could be but like, it's pretty sacrilegious so... yeah. kinda. thread carefully, i guess.
> 
> title is from CRJ's the sound.

Youngjae sings like an angel. His voice carries over the aisle and into the wings and seems to lilt and dance around the marble floors, stained windows, and wooden pews. He glows in the sunlight streaming in from the large windows behind him, which colors his chestnut hair into a warm deep red. His dark eyes, dancing with mirth in tandem with the smile that is so eternally playing on his lips, sweep over the audience. They do not pause when they find Jackson, but Jackson feels it like a brand anyway.

He shifts his weight, squirming a bit over the wood. Jinyoung turns around to give him a Look and Jackson grimaces at him but does try and settle down.

Youngjae is the pastor’s son, loved and cherished by the entire parish. He sings as though God himself gave him a voice and told him it was a sin not to use it, as though his voice alone can bring sunlight and bright blessings. He never stumbles on his words, like Jackson, nor does his voice break in the higher registers, like Jaebeom’s. Jackson would hate him for it if he didn’t know how much work went into it. He knows, in contrast to the people in the pews, consisting of monastery residents and people from the closeby village, about the hours and hours Youngjae spends honing his craft, sharpening his skill until it seems god-given and inevitable.

Jackson’s voice is not as lovely. It has its charm, he knows that, but no one would ever call it a gift, or a blessing. It is too human for that, too hoarse and raspy, too uneven and deep.

Sometimes, he thinks his voice is what it is because, in contrast, it makes Youngjae’s all the more angelic.

“I can’t believe you got stuck on clean-up duty again,” Bambam says underneath his breath, gathering all the little leaflets from the row they’ve been sitting on. It’s a small kindness, and a kindness that Bambam will deny doing, but Jackson appreciates it nonetheless.

“It’s okay, Bam,” Jackson answers, knocking his shoulder against Bambam’s, ruffling his hair as though Bambam is still the shorter one between them, “I don’t mind.”

“The pastor has to have something out for you, I swear,” Bambam mutters, his attention splintering between Jackson’s plight and Yugyeom, who is waiting for him by the large wooden doors.

“Then he would have something against his son as well,” Jackson shakes his head, “Youngjae-ah is helping me out.”

“At least that’s something,” Bambam nods, sounding a little bit mollified, “Come find us after, yeah?”

“I will,” Jackson promises, giving a playful little pat to Bambam’s shoulder, “Now go to Yugyeom-ah, and make sure to close the doors when you leave.”

Bambam hands him the leaflets he’s gathered, which does make for one less row that Jackson has to clean. It’s very sweet. Jackson would kiss his cheek if he didn’t appreciate the gesture enough to not embarrass Bambam in front of the boy he’s in love with. Jackson is not always capable of such kindness. Perhaps Youngjae’s singing is what brings it out in him.

Maybe.

Bambam and Yugyeom wave goodbye, and Jackson waves back with a wide grin. It doesn’t falter as the large wooden doors are pulled shut, making the chapel sealed off from the rest of the monastery. The sunlight seems to hang in the air, the silence so palpable it’s almost visible.

It’s odd, how liminal it becomes, with the door closed.

The heels of Youngjae’s shoes click against the floor, echoes against the walls. Jackson shivers with the sound, unable to place it into a single feeling. Anticipation. Shame. Desire. _Want_.

“Jackson,” Youngjae’s voice is warm and melodic, ringing clear through the air even as he speaks. Jackson turns, licking his lips from the sudden dryness as he meets the dancing levity of Youngjae’s dark eyes, the quirked smile playing over Youngjae’s lips, “Let’s get started, shall we?” He tilts his head, smile not dimming. It is a little bit like staring into the sun, which certainly isn’t _smart_ and while Jackson isn’t dumb he’s certainly _foolish_.

At least he feels foolish, taking a step forward, pulled into Youngjae’s orbit without the man even really having to try.

“Yeah,“ Jackson says, swallowing around the hard beat of his heart, that burns and aches with the weight of all his conflicting emotions, “Yeah, let’s start.”

* * *

Jackson’s breath hitches and he whimpers, it catching in a wheeze as he tries to pull in air through his constricted throat. The smooth wooden beads of his rosary, given to him the day he stepped into the monastery, are tight against the flesh of his throat, biting into the skin. The crucifix lies flush and limp against his pulse point.

“You didn’t finish,” Youngjae says, pulling the rosary tighter, smiling as Jackson’s breath whimpers out of him, as Jackson’s face flushes even through breathless paleness, “You should finish the prayer, Jackson.”

With a low whine and a burst of warm arousal as Youngjae shifts just a bit, as Youngjae lets a breath of air climb into Jackson’s lungs, making his blood heat around the relief of it, fanning the flames of his arousal even higher.

“O Lord,” Jackson whispers, his voice breaking slightly over the words, “I firmly resolve —” he chips for breath, whimpering as Youngjae tightens his grip, restricting the air again, making the world break into dizzy haziness, making Christ, wistful and mourning on his cross, nothing more than a shapeless blur, “— with the help of Thy Grace, to confess —” he gasps, another inhale of sunlight stained chapel air allowed into his lungs, “— my sins —” he closes his eyes, his fingers gripping tight over the marble floors, his blunt nails scraping across the surface. Youngjae leans forward, his chest flush against Jackson’s back, and presses his warm voice against Jackson’s ear. His breath dances out against Jackson’s warm, blushing skin, lilting around each syllable.

“Keep going,” he says, ghosting a kind touch against Jackson’s cheek as his other hand tightens the hold on Jackson’s rosary, making Jackson gasp and squirm.

“T-to —” Jackson’s eyes flutter, his vision blurred and dazed, “Ah —”

“You can do it,” Youngjae coos, his voice so warm that it seems part of the chapel itself, seems as much part of the sanctuary as the stained windows and sun-warm wood. “Come on.”

“To do penance —” Jackson rasps, trying to lean his head forward, but Youngjae pulls his hand back, makes Jackson look up again, makes him look at the beautiful cloth laying over the altar, the devoted details carved into Christ’s bleeding feet, “ — and to amend my life.” Jackson finishes, gasping as Youngjae pulls even tighter, each little wooden bead leaving an imprint that Jackson will be able to trace his fingers over for days. Red little bruises that will press and flush and hurt underneath the high collar of Jackson’s robes, where the press of heavy cloth against them will remind him of _this_ until they fade.

“Amen.” Youngjae murmurs, running a soothing hand over Jackson’s hair, carding his fingers through Jackson’s dark tresses. He releases his hold and Jackson slumps forward, gasping, each little breath inhaled through a low, raspy little whine.

Youngjae murmurs sweetly, nonsense little words of comfort as he gently turns Jackson towards him, smiling as he gently brushes a knuckle against the tears clinging to Jackson’s lashes.

“Did you prepare yourself?” Youngjae murmurs as Jackson shivers, eyes fluttering shut as Youngjae pulls him closer, cradling Jackson’s cheek in his long-fingered hand, “Use your voice, Jackson.”

“Yes,” Jackson whispers, his voice still quivering on bruised vocal cords. He leans his head against Youngjae’s kind touch, feels the metal of Youngjae’s rings against his cheek. Warmth bursts between his ribs alongside burning shame as Youngjae pulls up Jackson’s robes, palming his hand over Jackson’s tan, golden skin. Youngjae hums as he ghosts a touch over the paler parts, over the shivering sensitive skin that so rarely sees the sun, even though Jackson almost always works the stables and the garden and thus gets more sun than most.

Jackson’s rosary spills out from over his open collar that reveals the cut of his collarbone, coils over the floor, the sliver of silver inlaid into the crucifix glints in the stained sunlight filtering in through the high-arched windows. Jackson looks at it, his gaze unfocused, his cheeks warm and his blood hot as Youngjae presses his long fingers against his clenching entrance. He is wet with oil, still, and his hole still clenches around nothing from being stretched out around Jackson’s own, calloused fingers.

“You did,” Youngjae laughs, delighted and mocking all at once, the beautiful sound ringing out into the air, caught and amplified by a tower that has heard the voices of the faithful for generations, “You _did_.”

 _Ah_ , Jackson thinks, closing his eyes against the sear of shame and embarrassment lodging into his chest, snaking and settling into his stomach, _what does it say about me, that I would do it again and again, just to hear that laugh again_.

The weight of lead in his belly somehow makes it better, though. Makes his little whimper all the sweeter as Youngjae shoves his robes completely out of the way, baring the flush of Jackson’s ass to the air.

“You want me to fuck you on the altar?” Youngjae murmurs, tracing a finger down Jackson’s neck, at the little imprints from his rosary, smiling as Jackson shivers in pain and pleasure from teasing the bruises that haven’t even been allowed to rest long enough to stain, “Or should I take you on the floor?”

“The floor,” Jackson gasps, the inhale and exhale of his breath a little wet as Youngjae pushes two fingers inside him too quickly, the burn and ache of the stretch actually balming and quieting the restless shame quivering inside him, “The floor, please.”

“Okay,” Youngjae nods, a slight pause as he licks his lips and Jackson feels a distant glow of pride for that, for making Youngjae want him enough to pause, “I’ll fuck you against the floor, as you want.”

It is an odd kindness that Youngjae allows because, in everything else, he pushes and prods and cajoles. But in this, he allows Jackson a choice and accepts it without question. Perhaps he keeps asking because it means that one day, Jackson will allow himself to be fucked open and wet on the altar, leaking cock staining the velvet embroidery, and when that happens, it will have been _Jackson’s_ choice. It will make it _Jackson’s_ willing, wanting descent.

Jackson’s face burns as Youngjae’s fingers squelch when they move inside him, Youngjae’s small little huff of amusement accompanying the sound that thrills out into the quiet, hallowed air.

“This does not feel like cooking oil,” Youngjae says, placing one hand around the back of Jackson’s neck, pressing Jackson down until Jackson’s cheek rests against the marble, worn smooth by the steps of generations upon generations of worshipful feet, “Where did you get this?”

“I — I bought it,” Jackson says, because he couldn’t lie, not like this, not while spreading his legs wider, allowing Youngjae better access, “I bought it, last time I was in town.”

“I see,” Youngjae says, after a brief pause and then he chuckles, breaking out into bright laughter that he presses against Jackson’s back as he finds Jackson’s prostate with the ease of someone who has done this countless times before, making Jackson gasp and whine, breaths puffing out against the marble, “Ah, you are a delight, Jackson,” He murmurs, “Did you see the other things the shopkeep keeps, hm? You must’ve, if you asked them for oil this thick, she would’ve shown you.”

“Ah —” Jackson whimpers again, his ass clenching tight around Youngjae’s fingers as Youngjae presses them against his prostate, making his entire body startle, “Ah, I — _yes_ ,” Jackson gasps, face flushing red as he remembers the smooth phallic wood and stone, weighted and heavy, and the shopkeepers broad, knowing grin saying _we have a bigger one, but it was recently bought, but if you wait a month, i’ll get another one, if you’d like it_.

“I wish I had been there,” Youngjae sighs, sounding wistful even as he makes Jackson give a breathless squeal with another press of his fingers as he pushes a third inside, using his thumb to press and tease at the rim of Jackson’s stretched entrance, “I would’ve loved to see the way you blushed.”

Jackson pants and swallows around the shame and desire lodged into his throat, the ache of his still-bruised skin making the taste of it all the sweeter. The floor is smooth and cool because even though it has been warmed by the sun, Jackson burns hotter, flushes warmer. Jackson’s hands are useless where they grasp over the fine stone, where his calloused fingers find all too familiar groves. He whines when Youngjae removes his fingers, which makes him flush a deeper shade and makes Youngjae laugh again, half-mockery and half-joy. Jackson flinches as Youngjae pinches the sensitive skin of Jackson’s pale, thick thighs and then makes a small, distressed noise as Youngjae does it again, like a cat toying with his prey.

“Patience is a virtue,” Youngjae murmurs, running his well-kept nails over Jackson’s quivering skin, “I’m of half a mind to leave you here, greedy as you are.”

 _No_. The visceral ferality of Jackson’s denial, stretching and gripping into his heart almost surprises him, “ _No,_ ” he whimpers, letting the trailing ends of his aching need stitch into the word, “No, please,”

“Hm,” Youngjae runs a hand over the flush of Jackson’s ass, runs his fingers down the cleft between his cheeks, stopping right before the tight, delicate skin of Jackson’s testicles and leaking cock, “Ah,” Youngjae shakes his head, traces a pattern with his nail down over Jackson’s cock, making Jackson’s cock jump and dribble a slick of precum down upon the ancient floors, “You are right,” another little sigh, another trace of his nail, just on the side of too little and too much all at once, “One must finish what one starts.”

He slaps a hand down on Jackson’s ass, grabbing at the flesh and pulling it to the side, baring Jackson’s winking hole to his eyes. He presses a thumb inside and Jackson’s clenching heat swallows it easily, greedily, even as Youngjae hooks it, pulls him higher and into a prettier arch with the pull of it.

Youngjae, still impeccably dressed, simply hitches his robes higher, pulling out his half-hard cock. Jackson, who is so hard and needy it hurts, whines uselessly against the floor when he sees it.

“Don’t take it personally, Jackson,” Youngjae says smoothly, which somehow makes it _worse_ , “It just takes more than this for me.” He tugs a hand over his cock, working himself into fuller hardness, “You’re just going to have to be good and open and loose for me, aren’t you?”

Jackson nods against the floor, moaning as he feels Youngjae line himself up, feels the blunt pressure of Youngjae’s cock against his entrance. Youngjae thrusts inside with little fanfare and gentleness, Jackson’s breath leaving him in a needy, whimpering little gasp. Jackson slides forward, just a bit, at the next thrust and Youngjae tsks, pinches his thigh, which makes Jackson brace himself against the next thrust, his trembling limbs pushing back to meet Youngjae’s next thrust.

“Wider,” Youngjae murmurs and Jackson presses himself flat against the floor, arches his back in a deeper bow, spreads his thighs wider, “Good boy,” Youngjae says, his voice a sweet little melody even now, even fucking Jackson against the floor in front of the stained windows depicting scenes from the old testament, even fucking him in front of the mild, pious eyes of a dying Christ on his cross.

Somewhere, lodged tight and deep inside him, Jackson wishes he didn’t react the way he did, that he didn’t preen and gasp at the little, murmured words of praise. But he does, _God_ , he does.

Youngjae’s hand is heavy against the back of his neck, like a burning brand weighted on his back, but Jackson would stay still even if it wasn’t there, even if Youngjae had only held onto his hips, moving Jackson down onto his cock. Because fuck, Jackson loves it, he loves the burning stretch of being fucked and used. He loves the ache of burning shame intertwining with the tide of overpowering desire and need. He loves the way it makes his mind go bright and empty, makes his breath stutter, and throb over useless, needy little words. He loves the way Youngjae is kind and cruel, all at once. He loves the way Youngjae sings like an angel, moves through the parish with such gentleness it aches to watch him, and then fucks Jackson against the marble floors of his father’s church, hard and mean.

It feels a lot like the grace of God, Jackson thinks, gasping wet and drooling against the floor, pushing back to meet each hard thrust Youngjae gives, mewling and whining and wanting, it feels like the kind of love you have to _earn_.

Jackson comes first. He always does, just as Youngjae always laughs and tugs at Jackson’s oversensitive cock, giggling as Jackson whimpers in half pain, half pleasure. His spent cock slowly drools out little drops of cum with each hard thrust from Youngjae’s hips, with each glide of Youngjae’s cock inside him.

When Youngjae comes, he does so with a low, gasping groan, his voice breaking over the sound, hips stuttering as he releases inside Jackson’s clenching, wanting heat.

The sanctuary seems timeless. The passage of time is nothing to a building that has seen the birth and death of generations past. Even the sunlight seems trapped inside, hanging meek in the stale, quivering air. Sweating and panting, Jackson feels as though he is floating in the liminality of it. More than human and all too human all at once.

“Good boy,” Youngjae breathes against Jackson’s ear, smiling as Jackson shivers, bends, and molds himself around Youngjae’s darkness and light, “Well _done_.”

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK i just think that youngjae can be the sunshine AND also be a really hard, kinky dom. that is my characterisation and i am sticking to it.
> 
> other than that i don't really have any excuse except that uh, it's pretty fun to write horny church sex? like sure, there might not be any plot there, but at least there's two guys fucking in fron of the altar. which is pretty cool, right?
> 
> okay fine i'll leave.
> 
> i did this because i needed a break from writing all the chapter plot things i'm writing. i have no other excuse.
> 
> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/syster19)


End file.
